Housemates
by White Camel
Summary: Merlin is a broke perfectionist in his mid-twenties, still absolutely clueless to any female attention, and Morgana is his sexy, reformed rich kid punk housemate.


**House Mates**

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**This is really nothing special, I'm just getting into the habit of uploading everything I write. I haven't proof read this or anything yet, so apologies for all the spelling mistakes and dodgy grammar. Originally, this was for a prompt given by a writing challenge generator, which said something along the lines of 'a character becomes manic and gets drunk', but I got bored and went to sleep half-way through, and didn't feel like picking this scene back up later on. **

**Also, I honestly have very little clue about punk fashion and all that, and I'm not completely sure I've even got the date right. To be honest, Morgana seems more like a gothic Hulk in hotpants, but meh. I just watched The Lost Boys (the 1987 one, I managed to get through fifteen minutes of the sequel before I just had to switch the telly off and cuss hysterically in a corner somewhere), which was absolutely epic, and thought "I seriously want to write some sexy punk!Morgana and clueless perfectionist!Merlin." Maybe I'll turn this into some average joe rebel punk vampire story, I was really tempted to click my fingers and transform Merlin into a hardcore groovy vampire with a crazy, witchy partner-in-crime and a team of demonic cats. **

**But yeah, I've been rambling for two paragraphs now. Go read this already, and laugh in my face at how terrible it is in an angry anonymous review or something. I promise I can sort of kind of write a little bit! :[ **

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It was the year of 1982, and a winter chill sapped Merlin's bones like a hungry leech. He shuffled his collar closer to his neck, head bent low against the slithering, creeping rain that crackled like white noise along the cold, tiresome streets. Cars growled past like frantic, frightened flies, hovering irritatingly close to his ears as they whirred closer, then away, and suddenly closer, until fading further into the distance.

A girl, with fiery red hair cropped like a pixie, walked past in little more than a thick, frilly corset and leather skirt (that, might I add, barely concealed her backside). She eyed Merlin up and down, completely disregarding the goose bumps on her lifeless, dull skin as she gave an approving smirk. Merlin followed her with his eyes as she trailed into the crowd, clumsily bumping into a very angry buisnessman in the process.

She was a punk, a free rocker with one hell of an ego, and way out of his league. He was just a gawky, gangly kid with far too many limbs to comfortably walk and far too little talent to comfortably make a living. Merlin was barely scraping by as a cleaner, scrubbing the floors and polishing the walls for posh, arrogant assholes. How could a woman like that ever find interest in a man like him? No, perhaps he'd been mistaken, perhaps she'd been laughing at his ugly attire and big ears, or perhaps he was just humouring the poor, skinny kid who didn't know the difference between the Ramones and the Rolling Stones.

Well they sounded awfully similar, so he was hardly to blame. After all, who could keep up with all the crazy music going around these days? He wasn't even going to _try_ to be one of those pretentious douchebags, who flaunted about with their pet bulldog and discussed how the punk movement had lost all 'feeling'. Gosh, it wasn't like there'd been any feeling in the first place, other than "stab stab kill kill I hate society".

Besides, he hated bulldogs, they reminded him of his grumpy uncle Steve. No, cats were far more appropriate, and a lot nicer to boot. They cleaned themselves, they took themselves for walks, they didn't bark like a raving madman at every single tiny little whisper. All you had to do was give them some tasty food and the occasional snuggle, and cats would follow you to the ends of the earth. Well, they probably wouldn't, they're far too clever for that. They'd probably follow you to the very edge, and then laugh hysterically as you tripped over and landed rather inelegantly on top of the end of the earth.

No wonder Merlin wasn't chasing that lady down the street and demanding a good old shag. He could barely hold a decent thought before trailing off and thinking about cats and the apocalypse. A million thoughts would whizz through his brain a day, and yet when it came to the simplest of conversations they all whizzed away to the bright, burning stars, leaving him gaping like a braindead goldfish. Social interactions weren't really his thing, he much prefered minimal human contact and the company of one or two cats...

...Okay, so maybe three, but it wasn't a crime to hold a certain love for such adorable little creatures. At least, he didn't think it was, as long as that love didn't become inappropriate...

Eurgh, please stop thinking. Stop. Now.

He remembered when his auntie Claire (wife of uncle Steve, although thankfully they weren't _actually _Merlin's aunt and uncle -no, Claire was his auntie-in-law, but it was so much easier to just call her Aunt) had arrived to dinner in a vastly ill-fitting wig, which had flopped from her dozing head, onto her plate of dinner and then slid straight onto her huge bulldog's head. Granted, the mass of frizzy brown hair had been placed upside down and slightly crooked, but it made for a rather unnerving sight.

Did they have special wigs for animals? Because animals could loose their fur sometimes, and it might be a bit embarrassing to face all their animal friends, kind of like turning up to school naked. Not _actual _wigs, that would be silly, but little costumes that could be zipped up, like a tiny gorilla suit.

The intelligence of an evil mastermind and the wisdom of a surfer smoking pot, and yet Merlin couldn't help but think of bulldogs in gorilla suits, and then gorillas in bulldog suits. The term 'awkward' wouldn't even begin to describe this young gentleman.

It wasn't as though he was just a kid. Merlin was well into his early twenties, and yet despite having the strong will and great heart comparable to that of the love child between Buddha and the typical teen magazine Agony Aunt, he was broke and stuck in a dead end job, with no money and no future. It was difficult enough living with his insufferable room mate, the reformed rich kid who decided she was done with her fuckwit sugar daddy, and ran off the explore the urban life of England. It didn't help that she was ridiculously gorgeous, the minor drawback being she had mood fluctuations as though she were permanently on her period. Honestly, Morgana made for the most terrifying woman he'd ever met, and that spoke volumes considering his own nutjob family.

Sure, Hunith (the mother) was fairly average, but by God she loved to break out the old family albums, pointing to pictures of a nude three year old Merlin with particular relish. Uncle Steve and Auntie Claire already mentioned, Hunith's parents were like hell on roller skates. A crazy Polish artist and an uptight, smart American, they certainly made for an incredibly...interesting couple, and Balinor (the father) had a resume that would make any man piss in his boots.

He'd been a high school dropout, and then entered a gang (where he'd attained a whole range of colourful tattoos), and afterwards taken a whole one hundred and eighty degree turn and become a classic old cop, before deciding it was far too boring, and worked as a very active protester against all sorts of political morons, before deciding to join the army. And that's where he'd died.

It was a sort of funny death, not really in the "oh, that's odd" sort of way, but more in a "ha-ha that's incredibly horrific but also slightly entertaining" way. Balinor was just about to pull some incredibly heroic stunt, when he tripped over his own feet and landed with a heavy thwack into no-man's land, where he was promptly shot into oblivion. If Merlin had any doubts that this had been his father, they'd been swiftly eradicated in an instant. He missed his dad, but he also missed his vintage collection of comics, which his mother had carelessly thrown away once he'd left home. He was never going to get the two back, and the sooner he sucked up his despair and proudly jutted his chin, the sooner his dad could rest in peace knowing his little boy was going to be okay.

Merlin approached the barren, black front door to his not so homely abode, not bothering to use his keys as he firmly pressed the slightly malfunctioning doorbell.

"What the hell do you want?" a grumpy voice grumbled over the sound of a screeching Patti Smith song.

"I've lost my key," Merlin effortlessly lied, shouting through the rusty letterbox. "Could you let me in?"

"Go away," Morgana shouted, turning up the volume with fierce dedication. "I'm busy."

Merlin snorted, and muffled his guffawing laugh with the back of his sleeve. "Please?" he begged, mustering the most pathetic, whimpering, kicked puppy whine humanly possible. "It's raining outside, and I'm really cold."

Merlin could actually _feel_ Morgana rolling her eyes, and grinned devilishly.

"You're such a dork, Merlin," she reluctantly sighed, and he listened to the sound of her bare footsteps approaching the front door, so he hurriedly whipped his ear away from the letterbox.

The door flew open, and hell's fury was idly leaned beside the front doorstep, giving the most ferocious glare Merlin had ever seen. Morgana's eyes blazed like a billion exploding suns, darker than the dense black holes that followed. Her silky black hair piled sleekly atop her head like a manic crow's nest, and her lips pouted a luscious cherry red as she crossed her long, elegant arms over her ample bossom.

And what a bossom it was, left completely bare by a very endearing, ripped and torn low-cut shirt, a thick, studded leather jacket slung over her freckled shoulders against the biting cold. Her unnaturally graceful legs were elongated by a pair of killer heels, every curve accentuated by a bold, tartan pair of hotpants. And by god were they hot.

"Hallo," Merlin awkwardly beamed, feeling a little like a dung beetle within Morgana's haunting presence. He stepped in, not quite at Morgana's eye level, as he towered above with his full six foot frame. She glanced upwards with predatory scowl, and Merlin hurriedly flung his coat on the coat hanger (not like Morgana would have cared, her possessions were strewn all over the place) and stepped into the living room.

"Ah!" he said with false enthusiasm, his room mate trailing behind as he observed the absolute chaos within, "I see you were creating a new masterpiece."

Morgana scowled, unfazed by his compliment as she inspected her shiny black nails. "I was trying for hyperrealism," she sighed, "but charcoal really isn't my best medium. I should probably keep working with paints, but they're so damn _expensive_."

Merlin batted her complaint away. "Well, you know what they say," he grinned, waggling his finger like a petulant housewife, "practice makes perfect."

Morgana gave a cackling laugh, and settled herself down onto the worn, moth-eaten sofa in the center of the living room, resting her feet on the wobbly coffee table. "I'm all art-ed out today, I'm gonna take a quick breather. You got any cigs?"

Merlin clumsily tugged a pack of cigarettes from his jean pocket, and brandished them in Morgana's face. "Here," he said, "but save some for me."

"I thought you were trying to quit, said it gave you bad breath," she chuckled gleefully, sliding the cardboard lid open and placing a crisp, long stick in her mouth. "Oh, um, do you have a lighter on you?"

"There's one on the coffee table," Merlin said. He retreated to the dinghy old kitchen, cursing the mess of this house. Paint was carelessly splotched all over the sinks, water dribbled to the floor and cat food strewn in all four directions. He narrowly minded each step, reaching the tap and grabbing a glass from the once white, although now a nauseating shade of yellow, kitchen counter. Merlin filled his glass with clear, pure water, and took a great, tiresome gulp.

"Jesus, Morgie," he shouted. "What the hell have you done with the place?"

"Oh yeah," he heard her call from the living room, voice slightly distorted by the cigarette held between her lips. "I was doing a bit of freestyle abstract. Y' know, mucking about and stuff, when one of your cats went fucking mental. I swear she's the fucking craziest cat I've ever known."

"And you didn't bother to clean up?" he reprimanded, letting the comment on his beloved critters slide.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll get to it in a sec."

"Morgana!" Merlin shouted, his grip on the crystaline glass tightening. "I've been cleaning all bloody day, I hope you know."

"Oh my god, nag nag nag. You're just like my mum, bless her silly old soul," Morgana yelled. "_Fine_, I'll do it _now_."

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**I know, I suck at humour. T.T Review? **


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